


Do Without

by chuplayswithfire



Category: Original Work
Genre: Ballet, Candid discussion of race and monetary status, Canon Character of Color, Classism, Dancing, Gen, Original Character(s), Racism, realistic fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-14 01:56:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4545771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chuplayswithfire/pseuds/chuplayswithfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>High School track star, local big shot in the ballet community, Jayne Hart wants to dance more than anything else - she'd love nothing more than to chase her dreams to the big time, bright lights and open stages. But dreams alone don't pay tuition, and the end of high school means it's time for hard choices to be made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do Without

“What do you mean the meet got moved to this Friday? It’s been up for next week all semester! It’s right there on my calendar!” Jayne points. There circled on the calendar, is the date for the track invitational meet, scheduled for next week.

Her best friend sighs from Jayne’s bed and doesn’t look up from painting her nails ‘cause this is the third time they’ve repeated this and she’s getting tired of it, really.

Sure, Jayne’s reaction is over the top, but Trish could show a little sympathy! Mondays were bad enough as a general rule – this isn’t helping.

Last minute changes had arrived just in time to screw her over; the thought enough to leave her gritting her teeth and digging her nails into the bed of her palms. She’s caught between the urge to scream and the urge to throw herself on the ground and cry like a brat. She looks around her room, sees her clothes thrown everywhere and her slippers piled in the corner on top of Trish’s running shoes, the closet still gaping open because of the two backpacks tucked inside, hers and Trish’s and they’re so close to identical that from this distance you can’t even tell who’s is who’s.

Shaking her head, Trish puts aside the nail polish and crawls off the bed with the clumsy grace only a girl with wet nails ever manages, coming over to Jayne’s side. She pats her clenched fist, urging her to relax.

“I know it’s on the calendar. We all know it’s on the calendar, and its total bull that coach moved the date. But girl, you need to calm down because you’re gonna give yourself a damn heart attack at this rate, and if you think I’ll risk my nails catching your ass if you fall, you thinking of the wrong chick.” Her voice is firmly nonchalant around her gum. “Chill.”

Jayne bites back her first retort, and then her second, and her third too, just to be safe, the corners of her lips twitching and her brows furrowed down, nails biting deep in the meat of her palms. “Chill. That’s your sage advice? Chill. My life is on the edge and you want me to  _chill_?”

“Yeah. That’s what I got. Chill, and sit down before you slip and break your neck stomping in this mess.” Trish pats her cheek with fingers spread apart in that my-nails-are-still-wet way. “I don’t know why you’re surprised anyway. I hear the rich kids wanted next week for something else. They’re richer than God up the hill, and ain’t nobody gonna care about promises to a bunch of broke runners when they could get some of that.”

It’s true, and that’s the worst part of it all. Jayne feels like a rug got pulled out from under her and she can’t even expect an apology, because it all came down to money and she doesn’t have any.

“It’s not fair,” but fairness ain’t never had anything to do with it.

“Yeah. Sucks to be you, don’t it?” Trish blows a bubble, uses the excuse of popping it to look away from Jayne. Jayne does the same, and in the corner of her eyes a poster catches her eye. A simple one, with a single figure, posed arabesque. A Black ballerina.  _The_ Black ballerina, Misty Copeland, the first Black woman to ever be Prima Ballerina of the United States.

‘Your life is an occasion. Rise to it,’ the poster read, as if it were that easy.

When she’d bought it two months ago, it was inspiring. Now it’s all she can do not to tear it down.

She opens her mouth, tongue flicking out to wet her lips, and closes it without a word. Slowly, she sits down, and Trish sits with her, the two of them knee to knee, shoulder to shoulder.

“I don’t want to give this up, Trish,” she says finally, staring up at the picture perfect profile of her hero. The words are heavy; they ring true and some of her anger sparks back to life with them. Her life is an occasion. “I’m  _not_  going to give this up.”

Distantly, she sees Trish straighten, twist and look at her even more closely, the skin around her eyes tightening as she frowns. Distantly though, because her mind is churning. She’s kept everyone in the loop and made every effort to balance being track star and rising ballerina, stayed true. If they think she’ll accept this, they’re wrong. She feels something tight loosen in her chest as she accepts that.

“And if anyone expects me too… maybe I’ll just go ahead and quit, then.”

Pack up her running shoes and school jersey and toss it aside. If they’re going to do her like this, what’s her reason to stick with them?

Trish relaxes as if a weight has been lifted too, and a touch of a smile comes to her face. “Oh, well, yeah. I mean it’s just an audition, right? No big deal, it’s not even a performance.”

Jayne just shakes her head and for a second the two girls just look at each other. “I… wasn’t talking about dance. Track. I can quit  _track_ , Trish.”

“Of course you were- what?” Now it’s Trish’s turn to stare, her jaw dropping open so that her face stretches in a way that at any other time would be hilarious. She sits bolt straight and grips strong calves with both hands. “Repeat that, because there’s not a chance in hell I heard that right.”

“Well… you did. I can quit track, and go to my audition.” Jayne’s voice grows stronger, the words coming to her lips with more ease as she repeats herself. “I’ve been prepping for months. I’m not backing down now, I mean come on, you know me.”

“Yeah. I know you.” Trish continues to stare, the weight of her gaze heavy. “I know you’ve got a lot more sense than to do something stupid like that.”

The words drop with the force of an anvil, and Jayne shifts a half step back, lips parted. “…Stupid…” She shakes, feeling the hairs on the back of her neck rise. “You think I’m being  _stupid_? What, next you’re gonna tell me you think I can’t do it?!”

“I think if you think some fancy ass school in fucking New York that doesn’t even let enough girls in to fill up our track team is a better way out than track is, you’ve lost it! You think you’re going to make it in against all those rich kids? Come on, be realistic for once!”

“Yeah! Yeah, I DO! I’m good at this! I’m  _great_ at this even, and I’ve spent years in practice, hell yeah I think I can do this! And I thought you did too! You’re the one who said my routine looked great, you’re the one who’s been helping me with all my practices and picking out my music, and you – what, all this time you thought I couldn’t even make it in?” Her toes curl, her whole body tight with tension as she levels a glare at her best friend.

“All this time I thought I was helping you out, but that was before you wanted to screw us all over for a pipe dream! It’s not just about you, we’re all supposed to be a team! We’ve been working for this all year and now you want to me to be happy because you think tip-toeing on stage again is more important than us? Than me?”

If the last comment was a shock, this one is a veritable punch to the face, and it scatters the argument she’s been building in the back of her mind so that all she can do is stammer. “I- it’s – that’s not – Trish.”

Trish, please.

It goes unsaid, and Jayne hangs her head, saying slow and careful. “I’ve been practicing for this for years… I’ve been looking forward to this…for years. And now they’ve accepted my application and my money and they’ve given me a shot and… and what? You want me to give that up?”

“I want you to open your eyes and think about what you’re even saying. I want you to quit being so optimistic and – and hell, Jaynie, I don’t know what I want.” Trish sags too, letting herself fall back until she’s laying on the floor, papers crunching and crumbling under her weight. “I just… don’t want you to leave me behind.”

They’re silent after that, digging out homework and working quietly and never once looking at each other. Trish’s mom comes to drive her home after an hour and they hug like always and smiled like always, but they don’t say anything else. When Trish drives away in the backseat of her mom’s truck, Jayne doesn’t even bother to look, turning on her heel to march right back up the stairs to her room. Her mama’s voice is all that stops her.

“What’s wrong with you and Trisha, Mija? I haven’t seen pouts like that since the Christmas pageant - ”

“I don’t wanna get into it, mama,” Jayne snaps before running up the stairs, dodging little brothers to reach her room and close the door behind her, all before another word can be said. Her running shoes are half buried under a pile of laundry, but she digs them out and finds the least dirty pair of socks she can spot. Socks on, shoes on, she opens the window.

Her room is on the second floor. The tree in her yard has branches that make climbing down a cinch.

Jayne doesn’t even look at them, just swings her legs up and over the window sill and pushes off, dropping down into a tucked roll. The wet grass gives way beneath her and she’s off.

Long Beach is a pretty big city, and the inner city where she lives is it’s heart. It’s loud, it’s proud, and it’s so full of traffic she doesn’t have time to think about her feelings. Jayne runs down streets and around corners, between traffic lanes and parking lots, until forty-five minutes and five miles later, she’s away from the shopping districts and the main streets and hopping the fence to one of her favorite little spots in town.

A former school ground, the place had been renovated years ago into a park with a huge playground and picnic spots. From an eyesore and a crime sink, to a family friendly retreat in the middle of the city, the park had become Jayne’s favorite spot to have time to herself.

It’s not totally empty of course; there are a few brave parents with their toddlers by the sandbox, some elementary age kids playing on the swings, few guys she knows are dealers are playing b-ball on the court, passing the time before night fell. But it’s quieter than home and more importantly, no one here has anything to say to her.

She hones in on the track, heart still beating too fast, eyes burning, fingers trembling, not all of it the fault of her run. This place could be full to bursting, as long as that track was clear.  _There’s my starting point._

Small and torn up, horrible by any competitive standards, the track is little more than a few cracked slabs and a dirt worn path darted with flowers and weeds. It’s these that cushion her feet as she runs, as a stitch catches in her side, as her steps begin to ache. She stops thinking, stops noticing the kids watching her and the parents gossiping to each other, and just runs.

On her seventh pass around she trips and turns it into a spin, and then a kick, and then another, the pointed control of ballet blending with the weight of pounding heartache, her emotions painted into the air with flesh and bone.

Dancing and running blend into one, all motion and power and the feeling of her blood pounding in her veins. She darts forward and now her running is fuel for a tremendous leap.

Every surge of anger becomes a high kick, arabesque extensions to assemble maneuvers. Crashing despair becomes a series of balloté motions that throw her body this way and that in dizzying leaps. She halts with purposely rough steps and jerks to the side, arms coming up to frame her face in acted despair that carries her through several faltering steps. Throwing her arms down, she turns and moves across the track, legs crossing over each other in wide steps. The only sound is the pounding of her feet against the pavement, the jolting beat of her heart as she leaps and turns and spins, rising high in the air and landing with perfect precision.

_This is it, turn and leap, arabesque, pirouette, attitude, attitude, twist up barrel to spin to leap, tour jete **\- back straight toes point**  spin and spin and spin, down, up, down -_

Running had chased away the harsh feelings, blocked them like a flood damaged wall, holding but unsteady – dancing sets them on fire, sends every harsh word and flung comment melting away until all that exists in the world is the motion of the dance and her body carrying her into the routine she’s poured all her heart and soul in.

 _This_  is living.

Another throw, and this time the throwing leg stays in position as she twirls her body over it in a dizzying 540º turn, and sweeps into a kneeling position, one leg extended on point, the other supporting her weight at the knee, toes pointed directly behind her, back arcing over until she was a smooth line of muscle and bone. She throws herself to the ground in a rolling gesture, ending up on her back, sprawled in the grass. An upward motion throws her chest up, her fingers spread wide for maximum support, legs tensing as she keeps her legs straight and on point.  _Wear a sports bra next time,_  she thinks idly, feeling her breasts relax and spill against the sides of her every-day-use bra.

Back to the ground, letting her arms relax, her head thrown back and neck exposed, as crushed as she had felt when Trish’s scathing comments hit home…

And then surging up, this time knees following the motion as she half crouches, one knee extended, the other directly beneath her and she  _pushes_ from runner’s position to twist her body straight up and over, legs together and back straight for the spin that lands her on her stomach, exhaling with the impact to avoid losing wind.

Every motion is a clash of pleasure and pain, the joy of the dance and the ache of the run blending into controlled motions, feeling made flesh, bone and muscle carving into the air what she’s never been able to put into words.

Another, final breath, and she throws herself up once more, twirling to land on her back, hands braced, and then she swings straight legs beneath her, weight held by one steady palm for a hands worth of seconds as the rest of her body sweeps about in a smooth semi-circle. Pointed toes touch gracefully and she curls her knees close, extends them once more, and then throws her weight over in a sideways flip to stand solid and straight.

These are men’s move, traditionally, but she’s made them her own. Track and dance, all her form, and she loses herself in it until the pain stops and there’s only the rhythm.

Maybe that’s the reason it takes her entirely by surprise when she realizes the sound of clapping isn’t her imagination, but the appreciation of an audience she hadn’t realized was gathering.

Chest heaving as she catches her breath, she can only stare at the clapping crowd, mostly little toddlers and their parents and the elementary school kids she saw before she started running. Her cheeks are burning, blush hidden beneath dark skin, and she bows in a deep, sweeping gesture, letting the heavy fall of her curly hair hide her face.

It earns her a few excited laughs and squeals and a few more excited claps from the smaller members of her little audience, and soon those watching return to playing and minding their own business. After a few moments, there’s just a few little kids, and a chirping toddler struggling in her mom’s arms. The woman is pretty, her sharp cheekbones accented with makeup, and eyes darkened with mascara. The baby girl is maybe three at the most, wisps black hair curling around her ears and slender little neck, and points a chubby arm in Jayne’s direction.

“Mamama, mamama, dance! Pretty dance like Elmo!”

“Yes baby,  _hold still_ , she’s a ballerina, just like on Elmo!  _Sweetie let me get your sock on!_ Can you say baa-luh-ree-nah?” The mother sounds it out slow, makes the syllables stretch and the girl giggles, still squirming to avoid the sock.

Jayne smiles, the expression spreading across her face in a way that had to look just absolutely dopey, but she doesn’t care.  _She called me a ballerina!_

“Barena! Barena barena!”

It doesn’t even matter that it’s just some random lady and her random kid – it’s a bit of affirmation, that someone looks at her and her moves and says ballerina, not dancer, and not dumb kid. She dances like a _ballerina_ and even people who don’t know her can see it.

_I’m a ballerina._

She doesn’t stop grinning until she reaches the water fountain, and even then it’s just to drink enough water to kill a race horse, trying to take in all she sweated out over the last hour. The water is lukewarm and heavy with whatever went in tap water, but between dehydration and the warm feeling that overhead conversation had given her, it tastes like heaven.

When she’s drunken her fill and let the next kid in line have a turn, she puts her hands behind her head, and turns back towards the track.

In the distance, she can see her school.

–

A ten minute walk to reach the gate bordering the football field. Another six to hop over said gate and reach the P.E. building, where all the coaches got together to bitch, moan, and figure out how best to piss off their students and mooch off their best athletes. Coach Anderson’s office is at the very end of the longest hallway at the top floor.

With the time it takes her to get there, Jayne builds her little burst of confidence into a roaring inferno, tying together all the arguments and points she can make, all the logic and all the sheer pissed-offed-ness she would need to even have a chance of getting her way.

Her team was made a promise. She was made a promise. Four months in advance, she’d planned her audition, all to avoid a conflict like this. Probably a day, if that, spent on the decision that would ruin it all. Fuck that nonsense.

Jayne takes half a minute to make sure the woman is inside the office, and then throws the door open hard enough to make it bounce off the opposing wall.

“Coach! I’ve got a bone to pick with you!”

Confidence and bravado would be the only chance she has with this opponent. Loud as life, with as much attitude as she can muster.

Even with all that, it still takes all she’s got in her to not quake at the annoyed look shot her way when Coach Anderson finally deigns to lift her head from her reports and face the girl who’s dared to invade her office.

“Really. I never would have guessed,” she retorts, deadpan voice collected, hard eyes boring into Jayne’s own. Anderson’s an older women of sixty going on forever, with greying black hair cropped short, wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and hard mouth. It was rumored she’d been in World War II. With the way she took on the world, unbothered by everything from dumbass students to broken bones, it was a rumor most everyone at Jayne’s school believed.

Unfortunately for the coach, today that intimidation factor won’t work. No, Jayne is here on a mission, and with it comes enough determination to march in the office and plant her fists on top of the cluttered desk with enough force to make her knuckles twinge.

“Really! What’s with this bullshit about changing the date for invitationals? We’ve had this thing locked in stone for the last four and a half months!”

Her chosen battleground is a heavy oak desk, Jayne on one side, Coach Anderson on the other, the room neatly divided by the weight between them. All around the are artifacts of gyms past, from football helmets and baseball mitts to the old lost and found box that was always full, for no student ever wanted to be the poor sap who admitted they’d left ‘refuse’ on Anderson’s precious track.

“Hart, I don’t think I like your tone,” the Coach puts forth with a slight purse of full lips, leaning forward and interlocking her fingers to rest her chin on them. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood, or I’d have you out on my field running payback miles.”

Jayne’s fist clench, tongue peeking out to wet her lips. “I don’t think so, Coach.  _I’m_ in the right here, not you. You know everything about this is complete fucking bullshit, or you would have kicked me out for barging up in here. This swap isn’t good for us, it’s not good for you, it’s making our team give up precious time we could use practicing, and what, so those rich kids can have a party? How could you sell us out?!”

The longer she speaks, the more her confidence grows, until she’s borderline shouting the last sentences, head held high and back straight, confident fists digging into wood. Jayne is in the right, she’s sure of it, and made surer because Anderson doesn’t say a word, just sits there and watches her with those intense hawk eyes.

“We don’t deserve this. A whole week of training time is enough that we could all shave time off our best and pull an even greater effort! We could sweep the competition! We - ”

“The funny thing about all this ‘we’ talk, girl, is that no one else has a problem with it. Didja know that? Not a single one of your teammates is making a peep. None of them going around spouting off about being betrayed. It gets me, makes me wonder how much of this is about the  _team_ and how much is about you, you know?” Anderson asks pointedly, loosening one hand and dropping it to her desk, drumming the hard wood with her freed fingers.

Jayne stiffens, swallows, her equilibrium thrown. She hadn’t expected that and it shows in her widened eyes, her tense shoulders. She looks away, catching a glimpse of her reflection in a polished trophy case. The girl in the mirror looks shaken, scared. It pisses her off.

“Me. You… you want to know how much of this is about me?” She nods to herself, watching with approval as her reflected image’s mouth hardens with tension, brows furrowing, shoulders drawn back. “Fine…a lot of it. Most of it, maybe. I’ve got an audition this Friday, remember? For Julliard,  _remember_? You wrote me a letter of recommendation,  _remember_?”

The words are a reminder, not just for the coach but for herself, and she forces herself to lose the tension, to meet Anderson’s gaze once more. She tries to see with eyes unclouded with anger, to focus on what she needs to get out of this confrontation and stay on track.

“I need you to change the date back.”

“No can do, kiddo. The Wilson kids already paid to have the field done up for the match, the counties are all agreed. This balls been in motion a long time and I can’t stop it now. Meet’s this Friday and there’s nothing I can do about it.” Anderson’s voice was just as cross as it had been before, but Jayne thought she detected a hint of sympathy.

 _Not enough to do anything though_ , she thinks, a bitter twist to her lips. At some in the conversation, her hands had gone from firm fists to loose grasps, her nails pressed into the wood. She sucks in a breath.  _Bet she’s just sorry I’m mad. Well too bad for her._

“Right. Well then, you can take this down in one of those sticky notes. I quit.”

That her voice is steady surprises her almost as much as the words of the announcement surprises Anderson, who jerks up in her seat.

“You  _what_?”

“I quit. I’m handing in my pink slip, I’m giving you my two weeks’ notice, I’m moving on to greener pastures,” she repeats, sucking in air before continuing, her chest tight, and heart in her throat. “I need this audition and I’m not going to let – going to let  _track_ make me miss out, star athlete or not.”

“Well damn. I’ll be sorry to see you go kid, but I’m not about to stop you. I can’t change things now, it’s over my head. If this is what you think you wanna do? Go for it. I can’t say I recommend it, but go for it. Do you.” There’s a hint of regret there, but for the most part Anderson is resolute in her decision, and to Jayne’s utter befuddlement, offers her hand to shake.

“Just. Just like that, you’d let me walk out of here.” She can’t believe it, some of her bravado knocked aside.

“Just like that. It’s a damn shame, you’re one of the best runners I’ve seen come out of this place in years and that’d have meant a hell of a lot to the university scouts, but I’m not going to  _make_ you stay.”

“…University scouts.”

“Oh, you know. For all the universities that’ll be looking out for replacements to fill the gaps in their teams. It’s the statewide invitational, kiddo, and whoever wins this – or even places up high – is going to be getting attention all over the country. Let alone if they make it to Nationals? What, don’t tell me you forgot track had a following outside the county?” A smirk.

Jayne… had. In the rush of dance and practice that had consumed her life for the last few weeks, she’d completely forgotten that track meant something to people, a whole lot of something. Julliard was where she wanted to be – and she’d nearly forgotten other schools even existed.

Anderson wriggled her fingers, as if to remind her that there was still a handshake riding on this. Slowly, Jayne brought her own hand to meet hers. “Come on kid, ain’t got all day.”

“…Maybe I did.” It’s a slow admission.

The handshake becomes a tight grip, the coach’s smirk dying and a scowl replacing it.

“You  _forgot_. You just  _forgot_  about thousands of dollars’ worth of scholarship opportunities, the chance for who knows how many offers of free rides to schools around the country, not to mention the opportunity for _international attention_ … Hart! Sit your ass down and tell me what the fuck you’re thinking!”

She flinches at the shout – bravado or no bravado, when a voice like an angry god shouts the wise  _sit the fuck down_  – and obeys, plopping down into a chair before she can even think to disobey.

“I don’t know what you’re yelling at me for! I told you I’m doing my audition - ”

“I don’t give a damn about that right now, you tunnel-visioned brat. If you want to prance around on stage then _do it_ but I don’t want to hear a word out of your mouth unless it’s to tell me why you haven’t been considering your options!”

Jayne feels small; small and ashamed, under the weight of her coach’s gaze. It’s not that Anderson is yelling at her – that’s normal. It’s the disappointed look, the way she shook her head ever so slightly, looking down the bridge of her wide nose, like she’s something underwhelming and bothersome, that makes her feel this way. She doesn’t like it.

“I… I have been thinking about my options! I just forgot, alright? I’ve been focused on my audition and I didn’t think it mattered because I wasn’t going to have to choose! If you hadn’t of changed the date, none of this would even matter!” Her lip curls up for the snarling retort, hands clutching the bottom of her seat.

“Well it matters now, the date’s changed, so quit crying over spilled milk and let’s sit here and  _think_ girl. What do you want to do with yourself – besides dance,” Anderson adds quickly, obviously seeing the mutinous look in Jayne’s eye. “Where do you want to be? How much debt do you want to have? What city do you want to live in? How much money you wanna make? This is the stuff your counselor should have gone over with you.“

The rapid fire questions stymy all attempts at petulance, and she responds automatically.

“I want to be dancing, I don’t know can I get away with none? I don’t care about the city or the place! A lot? I guess? The counselor just stuffed fee waiver applications in my hands and told me to make sure I finish the SAT, we didn’t go over all this!” This is a lot to think about! This is – huge? Is she really supposed to know all of this, already? It seems impossible.

Her coach sighs, her wrinkled features tightening. “Alright then. We start at the beginning. Do you know how much Julliard costs for a year? We can start there…”

Over an hour passes like that, the two of them going over every aspect of Jayne’s potential futures, from the costs of Julliard to the process of applying for FAFSA funds, athletic scholarships to potential expenses, and it was only when Jayne’s phone started singing the tinny ringtone pulled from the Final Fantasy VI start menu that they stop.

It’s probably for the best – Jayne’s head is spinning with all the information, and she barely manages to fumble through a phone call with her worried mother and a harried good bye to the coach, who waved her off with nothing more than an assurance that she’d see her at practice tomorrow.

That Jayne had promised to quit is mentioned by neither of them, and she takes the bus home rather than run. No one on the creaky bus bothers her; with her distant eyes and occasional shaking, no one quite seems to want to get near her, let alone take time from their own worries to dig into hers. It’s a quiet twenty minutes before she gets off.

Words like  _loan debt_  and  _six figures_  and the nearly sixty thousand dollar costs of living and study at Julliard that had always seemed like a lot but never seem impossible loom in her mind. It had always seemed possible, before. She could work her way through school, she could take loans and win scholarships – but Julliard didn’t offer much in the way of dance scholarships, not for students there to  _study_ dance. And the fact that the few scholarships she could find didn’t even mention how much was given… she  _wants_ it, there’s no doubt.

But Coach Anderson had showed her the kind of money she could get with a track scholarship. Most of the schools she could find would offer partials that could cover more than half the cost and many of those offered full rides… it’s tempting.

It’s more than tempting, it’s… it’s…

The words pop into her mind again, the loan agreement forms she’s just finished reviewing.  _Parents’ income as collateral_ …  _need and merit based loans, heavily dependent on parental contribution_ … the warnings, which – which are kind of terrifying, to be honest, that even if she dies her parents would still have to pay off all the debt. It’s a weight on her shoulders, one heavier than even her dreams had been, heavier than the lofty goal of success, because Julliard… Julliard and dancing and this audition are everything she’s dreamed of but is that fair to her Mama and Papa, to leave them paying or helping or used up as collateral for such huge debts?

For something so – so perfect impractical?

That had been the other thing she’d gotten a look at. The numbers of people who went on to study dance. The number that made it big? Hell, just the number that made a secure middle class life? Wasn’t big.

It’s hard for even Jayne to justify so much expense for so much risk, when it wouldn’t be just her expense, wouldn’t be just her future and finances on the line. Her mama and papa would help her and she isn’t sure anymore, that she can feel good about letting them.

Is even less sure that she can do it without them.

When she opens the door and slinks in the house, her papa is in the kitchen, doing dishes, and she can hear the loud sounds of her brothers playing in the living room. She creeps past them all, and up the stairs to her room.

Everyone in the house knows about her audition.

Everyone knows how much she wants to do it.

But. But if she told them she couldn’t make it… if she told them about the track date changing – it would be a mess.  _Mama would be furious_ , Jayne thought, biting her lip.  _She’d march right in there and make a scene and get so mad but. But Coach Anderson already said it’s out of her hands. Mama’d be upset for nothing._

_…unless it was an accident. I got the date mixed up. I ruined my schedule. Can’t disappoint the team mama, I know I was – I know I was looking forward to this, but, I can’t just drop everyone…? They’d believe it… right?_

It would work. She’s sure it would, the longer she thinks on it. Her mama will believe her, knowing full well what a sieve her mind can be when she’s excited. Her papa will remember all those mornings driving her to school because she slept in, and rustle her hair and tell her to keep track of things better. Her brothers will tease, because sister is being estupido and mama will yell at them to quit being so mean and threaten to wash their mouths out with soap and… and everyone would believe her.

If she does it. If she makes that choice.

Her fingers are shaking, she notes distantly. But wait. No, it’s not her fingers, it’s her arms, and her shoulders too. Everything is trembling and… and her chest feels tight, now she’s noticing. Every breath coming quicker and quicker, and she rubs a hand over her eyes, feeling a sore twinge. Dust. It’s dusty in here, she ought to clean more, get all these papers up and dust so it stops stinging her eyes. When her hand comes away, it does so with a glitter of wetness, and she stares at it, baffled.

Why was her hand wet? Why was – there’s no way she’s crying. Not a chance.  _It’s just… the dust. Just the dust._

When she picks up her slippers, the beaten battered old things with their faded pink color and the faint stains of red from too much exercise on feet worn thing, with the tatty string that had once been strong laces, and packs them up in the box to store in the top of her closet – it’s still dust.

The fliers don’t come down. They still mean something. They still mean  _everything_ and right now, if everything hurts, that’s okay.

Her life is still an occasion. She still has a chance to rise. She just… needs to get over the fall first.


End file.
